All over Jack
Jack, torn of corner, bitten, no heart. You promise
wealth, beyond the disputing pack, say certain wisdom
can be bought. I demand a wedding feast with broken
ribs, a Honeymoon, masks, whips, riding boots, and Venice.
Hitching up trousers for kisses outside the Greek shop.
you ask how long before police recognise my glossy robes,
pelt of rat. I feel as split open as a pomegranate, red orbs,
waiting to be pricked, my juice spilled extravagantly.
First published in issue 16, Under the Radar magazine, Feb 2016